The Balance

Find you no equipoise in this?
The dragonfly, whose weight would not
Mark on your confident scales one jot
Has swayed the russet grass-head down
By motion of his body’s kiss.
And the whole sky and shape of light
Lie on the grassy shields upborne,
And grass-roots, fibrous in the brown
Old earth, go fingering to the heart,
And shall take back your tallest town,
Riving marble and bronze apart
Between God’s midnight and His morn.
Thus in the scales that body bright
Blue-quivering, a margin is
By which the Eternal balances.